Bali Raw

by Malcolm Scott

  When I leapt from the back of the motorbike and started running toward the restaurant where Nick and Ankle were I was pretty wound up. The dangerous ride through Bali streets, the rage for what had happened to my brother and the stress of what could be happening had all combined into a torrent of adrenalin and anger.

  I didn’t know what to expect when I charged through the doors. Clever, as always, Nick sat facing the front door. Seated across from him and with his back to me was Ankle. I glanced at Nick and was glad to see he was OK—at least he wasn’t dealing with a load of gangsters. Oblivious to the fact that I was in an expensive restaurant, I screamed “motherfucker” and rushed towards the guy with the ponytail. Nick stood up and stopped me in my tracks. “Settle down Mal,” he said, “we’re sorting things out business style.”

  I slowed down because Nick had asked me to, but I still walked towards Ankle. I wanted a good look at the guy who had done so much damage. I stepped up to his side and stared down at him.

  Ankle turned to look at me and gave me an aggressive stare. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Yeah, you fuck. Is that what you think, is it?” I replied and grabbed Ankle by the ponytail. I yanked his head back hard. “How about I stab you in the fucking neck?”

  He struggled but did not get up. Whimpering, he grabbed hold of the table and tried to pull his head away. I guess he didn’t think I would come on with such ferocity.

  Nick flew around from his side of the table, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me backwards. I kept hold of Ankle’s hair and nearly yanked him from his seat. Nick spun around and got in front of me; he put his hands on my chest and looked into my eyes. “Stop it Mal, let him go; we are going to sort this out in a business fashion.”

  I gave Ankle’s ponytail a final pull, and then dropped it. I moved around so I faced him, then bent forward. “You’re dead,” I hissed.

  Nick forced his body between Ankle and me, gave me a shove and pushed me back a few steps. “Enough, I’m getting it sorted.”

  I wanted nothing more than to hit the bastard that had stabbed my brother in the throat. Nick is probably the only person that could have stopped me. Despite how much hatred I had for the guy it was Nick’s deal and his call.

  Nick held up his hand, “Mal, I’m going to sit down and Ankle and me are going to make a business deal.” Nick caught my eye and shook his head slightly, “No more. Not yet anyway.”

  I took the hint. I watched Nick closely and could tell he was secretly pleased, it seemed a little bit of threat could help further the deal. I edged around and moved a little closer to Ankle; I now stood at his side. Ankle looked up at me nervously and I smiled what I hoped was an intimidating smile. “OK, Nick,” I said, “I won’t do anything. Not yet, anyway!” I wanted Ankle to realise his reprieve had a time limit.

  Nick and Ankle went back to talking and then Billy suddenly charged through the door of the restaurant, took a look around and without hesitation rushed towards Ankle.

  Billy is a bulldozer of a man and a hitting machine; once he starts he is almost impossible to stop. Nick knew he had to react quickly. He leapt from his chair once again and blocked him. “Billy stop!” he screamed into his face.

  Billy tried to push past but Nick grabbed him bodily, the two of them wrestled. Nick only just managed to hold Billy back. Billy settled and Nick walked him backwards. “Billy slow down, leave it,” he said, “this is now business, it’s about money.”

  Billy looked passed Nick and stared at Ankle. “Yeah, you know who I am,” he said over Nick’s shoulder. “You want to hurt my family, come and try me, motherfucker!”

  Nick stood face to face with Billy; he spoke calmly and tried to pacify him. I took the opportunity to step behind Ankle and again grabbed him by the hair then shoved his face forward. Ankle struggled but I held him firmly by his ponytail. I put my mouth close to his ear, “You like to stab people from behind, how about I rip this off?” I gave the ponytail a yank. “What do you think of that?” I asked.

  Ankle tried to stand but I held him tightly, I could have punched him and I would have liked too. I relented and shoved his head forward. Then I let him go and stepped back.

  Billy calmed down and Nick put an arm about his shoulder. “No fighting, Billy, I want this to be a business deal,” he said, then led him over to the table. Billy walked around the table and stood on the other side of Ankle; we both stared down at the guy that had nearly killed our brother.

  Nick stood across from Ankle. The emotion in the restaurant was high and close to explosion. We surrounded Ankle and a fight could have started at any moment. The only thing holding Billy and me back was the respect we held for Nick. If Billy had struck Ankle I would have been right behind him. Ankle had attacked my brother from behind with a broken bottle and I hated him for what he’d put Nick through. I would have had no qualms about joining the fight.

  Nick is the oldest brother and incredibly protective, there was no way he would let his two younger brothers fight for him. If Billy had sparked off, Ankle would have had all three of us to contend with. Ankle knew it and he started shivering. The only one protecting him was the guy he had stabbed in the throat, he was right to be afraid.

  Nick continued to hold Billy and me back from Ankle with words; he looked at us as though we were bad children then raised a finger and said. “Enough you two, I’ve got it sorted. Thank you, but let me deal with this.”

  Nick sat down at the table. “So, are your boys coming?” he asked.

  Ankle stared at Nick and he tried to play the tough guy. He clenched his motorcycle keys in his fist, a metal key sticking out from between his knuckles. “They’ll come.”

  I bent down close to him. “I hope you get a chance to use that,” I whispered.

  Billy inched closer, he didn’t say anything but his presence reeked of danger; he put a hand down on the table to let Ankle know he was there. Ankle flinched and turned to glance at Billy.

  I laughed loudly and Ankle turned back to me. He didn’t know where to look. He made to stand but Billy placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back into the chair.

  Nick smiled and gestured towards the key in Ankle’s fist. “Well, it’s been a long time.” He looked at his watch, “Maybe they aren’t going to make it. If I was you I would think about that before I tried to be a hero.” Ankle slumped forward, slid the key back into his hand and didn’t answer.

  Nick smiled a chilling smile. “My boys are here and my Indonesian crew will be here at any moment. I have a feeling no one is coming for you.”

  Ankle sat motionless and fingered his key. “What is this, the fucking mafia?” he croaked.

  Nick laughed, “Go ahead, make another call, get your protection down here.” He reached over and gently pushed Ankle’s phone towards him. Ankle looked at his phone but didn’t pick it up.

  “Fuck this,” he said, and Billy and I crowded in.

  Nick took the initiative and stopped us from going further. “Ankle’s going to pay five thousand dollars; it’s for my medical expenses.” He spoke to Billy and me but delivered the message to Ankle.

  Ankle looked around, he looked panicked, beaten. “OK,” he blurted, “I’ll pay, but I need time to get it together. Who will collect it?”

  Nick leaned back in his chair; Billy and I edged back to give Ankle room. “I will send our security. A guy called Rap will come and collect over the next three months. Are you OK with that?” Rap was our Balinese security guard at the time, he was a scary-looking dude with a bat tattooed across his forehead. I wouldn’t have liked him to turn up at my door demanding money.

  Ankle agreed to the deal, Nick and he exchanged phone numbers and Nick collected his address. “Rap will come to your house tomorrow for the first payment.”

  Nick got up to leave and he beckoned Billy and me to follow. “OK, we’ll leave it at that. You can fix up my bill,” he smiled at Ankle. “Think of it as a down payment.”

  Billy gave Ankle a pa
t on the shoulder and the three of us brothers walked out together.

  This may seem like extortion, and it probably was to a degree, but Ankle got off lightly. Nick’s medical bills came to a lot more than five thousand dollars, not to mention the damages he would have been able to seek if the incident had occurred in a Western country. To my mind Ankle also deserved to be in jail for attempted murder.

  I can’t speak for Billy but as far as I was concerned it wasn’t about the money, I acted on emotion. I hated Ankle for what he had done and would have gladly seen him hurt; at the very least I hoped I scared him.

  Once outside I couldn’t resist a final parting shot. I let Nick and Billy get in front and then I turned and walked back inside. For the first time I noticed a bunch of well-dressed patrons sitting around the restaurant. Visibly shaken, they just stared at me.

  Ankle sat at the table traumatized. I walked up to him and leaned in close. Ankle flinched away from me. “Don’t pay,” I whispered, “I want this to be the last face you ever see.” I smiled and turned to leave, and as I did I saw Billy enter from another door. I’m sure Billy went up and spoke to Ankle after I’d gone. I don’t know what he said, he has never told me, but I know it wouldn’t have been nice.

  Nick, Billy and I went to a pub. Nick thanked us and we had a beer and a laugh. I’m sure Ankle wasn’t laughing that night.

  Ankle paid two thousand dollars towards Nick’s medical bill then disappeared from Bali and hasn’t been seen since.

  Turn the Other Cheek

  Bali is a rough place. You don’t see it in the brochures, and the Indonesian press is very careful about what it prints, but the truth is there is always something going down. Tourists get robbed, raped and murdered and Westerners get in fights amongst themselves and with Indonesians on a regular basis.

  Indonesians fight and kill each other all the time. There is huge animosity between different Balinese villages, between different Indonesian ethnic groups, and of course between Indonesians and Westerners. Balinese gangs control the security in most of the night spots and they hurt or kill each other in turf wars. Tourists often get bashed at nightclubs either by other punters or by the security. Expats fight each other. If you want to live in Bali, you better believe it is the Wild, Wild West and as dangerous a place as you will ever encounter.

  About a month after I arrived in Bali to live I was attacked while walking through a nightclub. Someone decided to take me out and they did it with a king hit. This was not Ankle related, it was a random attack.

  I had spent the night chatting to a Japanese computer expert who I thought could help me with my new role in the company. I had been given control of the company website and I thought the Japanese guy could give me some advice. I spent the later part of the evening talking to a big South African guy, who had happened to grow up in the same place as a friend of mine. All innocent stuff.

  I had just excused myself from the South African and was making my way to the toilet when I found my path blocked. I asked some guy if he could move his chair so that I could get past and I even said “excuse me”. The next thing I knew, a huge tattooed arm come out of nowhere and slammed into the side of my face. I was sent sprawling through the crowd and ended up in the middle of the dance floor. I tried to stand and defend myself but my legs were jelly; I slipped back to the floor and flopped around in my blood like a landed fish. I was semi-conscious with people staring at me and half my face was caved in. I had a broken nose and a crushed cheekbone, and no one bothered to lend a hand.

  Then I saw the Indonesian security heading my way and I knew I was in trouble. These guys didn’t mess about and I was an easy target. Again I tried to stand but I could only just make it to my knees. The crowd parted to let the security through and I was grabbed roughly by the back of my shirt. Luckily, the huge South African I had been talking to earlier stepped between me and the security; he pushed them away, then hoisted me to my feet and put a protective arm about my shoulder.

  The South African was a big guy, about six two and a hundred and ten kilos—he was a formidable-looking character and I was very glad he’d come to my rescue. The security was adamant that they wanted me for causing trouble but the South African faced them down. I was in no shape to protect myself or argue my point but he would not let them near me.

  The security and the South African argued back and forth while I dripped blood onto the floor. I listened but I was fighting hard not to black out.

  Eventually the security relented and they told the South African to take me outside; they said they didn’t want me in their club. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be in their club either.

  The big South African put an arm about my waist and carried me outside—he ended up covered in my blood and for that I was sorry. It was a big sacrifice for him to make when he was on holiday and just wanted to have fun.

  My South African saviour did his best to straighten my broken nose, and then he sent me stumbling down the street to get away as fast as possible. I remember thinking as I staggered down the road with my face caved in, welcome to Bali. When I got home, I didn’t go to hospital but called my brother Billy and his Indonesian wife; they came and picked me up and nursed me back to health.

  I felt I had hit rock bottom that night, I didn’t want to call my brother for help but I had no choice. I felt isolated in a foreign land that I didn’t understand. I wondered why the security hadn’t gone after the guy who king hit me. Now I know better. I was incredibly lucky that night; I now know from experience that I would have received a kicking from the Indonesian security guards if they had dragged me outside. Indonesian security go after the weak, not the strong. I was an easy target—a Westerner they could hurt without repercussion. After many years in Indonesia, and a lot of time spent in Bali nightclubs, I have seen this scenario play out dozens of times, and inevitably it is the person that is down that gets the beating.

  That night I missed Australia and I didn’t want to live in Bali anymore. I didn’t want to live in a place where people stabbed you with bottles or bashed you when you were minding your own business. In the end it turned out to be a great lesson, but at the time I knew I had to toughen up if I was going to survive living in Indonesia.

  I spent the next two weeks lying on my brother’s couch recovering and letting my face heal sufficiently so I could return to work. And by the time I recovered I had found out who had punched me—evidently it was just a random act of violence by a Hawaiian surfer.

  Our own Indonesian security offered to have him bashed. They assured me that the guy who had punched me would be set upon by five or six heavy Indonesians; they promised me he would not walk back onto his plane. I declined this offer as I didn’t want to bring disrepute to my brother’s business, but truth be told I did go through the motions. One night I sat outside the guy’s hotel with the security to identify him, but in the end I put a hold on the bashing.

  In the end I decided to let bygones be bygones and the guy who took a pot-shot at me got off lightly. Had I been a different person, the Hawaiian surfer may have found himself in deep trouble. It is always wise to know who you are dealing with in a place like Indonesia.

  When the Bell Tolls

  When I first came to live in Bali my employment package consisted of one hundred dollars per week and a one-bedroom apartment. This was to be reviewed after one year and I think for the second year I ended up with one hundred and fifty per week, so even for Bali things were pretty tight.

  The apartment I moved into was tiny, basically a hotel room with a small stove. When I walk into it nowadays I can’t believe I managed to live there for two years. I used to think of it as a prison and believe me it’s not that different. There are so many metal bars on the windows, doors and across the front balcony that the place could be mistaken as a holding cell for the criminally insane and I believe if I had lived there any longer than I did I may have ended up as just that.

  The apartment is situated in the very dark heart of Kuta,
in one of the seedier parts of town. Across the road, no more than fifteen steps away, was a pub and next door to that a CD shop. Most nights the pub would crank up the music until about 1 am, then every morning at 7 am the young girl in the CD shop would play Bryan Adams at full volume. I didn’t get much sleep and I came to loath Bryan Adams.

  The only thing that kept me from losing it was the fact that the young girl was extremely pretty. Once in a while I would pull myself out of bed and get ready to march across the road and explode and then I would see her and fold enough to crawl back into bed humming a Bryan Adams tune—it’s amazing the soothing effect a pretty face can have on a man.

  Something you notice about Indonesians when you live amongst them is they like noise and they are extremely competitive. One of the problems I had with the CD shop and the pub was they would engage in musical duels every morning—the guy who opened the pub was a Guns N’ Roses fan.

  The girl would get there first and put on her Bryan Adams, then “Sweet Child of Mine” would come on and drown her music out so she would turn her music up and he in turn would crank up his sounds. It was bizarre, they both had good stereos and they would both play them at full volume every morning. I’m sure neither one could hear a thing or make out their songs. I, on the other hand, would lie in bed screaming my head off for them to shut the fuck up while my windows vibrated around me.

  This went on for two years but I never walked outside and complained, there would have been no point. The Indonesians in Kuta live day to day—any complaint I made would last for that day, the next morning the same thing would have happened.

  Another source of noise pollution I endured at that apartment was from a dog I nicknamed Tinkerbelle. Tinkerbelle was a little white fluffy dog that had an enormous bell tied about its neck; the bell would not have been out of place in a cathedral.